


Birds of a Feather

by extra_Mt



Series: One-shots [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 15:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extra_Mt/pseuds/extra_Mt
Summary: In this world, when a person creates a piece of work, it literally drains their soul. Despite the law to regulate art production, Lana continues to write, and Mary Eunice struggles to keep calm.





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm moving my old work from ff.net. Figured this site has more people from this particular fandom

Lana parked her car and walked past a book shop. In the showcase, a different set of books from a couple of days ago was looking out to the street. She stopped in front of it for a brief moment.

The book covers looked back at her. Blue, green, all kinds of colors, with the title printed to occupy almost the entire expanse of the cover. Even through the glass, the radiating pride felt strong. She felt it on her skin. Some books had an even more intense energy to them, the author’s pretentious soul screaming.

  
It was a justifiable feeling. Creating art is not for the faint of heart. The creator had every right to feel smug about it if they wanted to. After all, they had sacrificed a literal piece of their soul for it.

  
Lana knew it very well, remembered the sense of pride when her first story came to breathe and sat in the bright showcase. People loved it. Many of her friends followed suit. Nowadays almost everyone in the world had it on their bucket list to produce a piece of art. Whether you dedicated your whole life to it or a few years, as long as you did it, you are good to go. One piece, and you have your existence forever etched into history.

  
But unlike most of the artists in the world, Lana didn’t stop after her first piece. She kept writing. It didn’t matter to her that she had to sacrifice a small portion of her soul for each piece. She didn’t care about people remembering her forever, either. The act of writing itself was the only important thing.

  
The only regret was that her books, unlike their oldest sibling, would never see the light of day, no matter how better they turned out to be. The international law prohibited a person produce more than one piece of art in their lifetime, in order to protect the individual from the loss of soul. She had no choice but to write for the black market now. Nobody but a handful of people in her life knew about her crime.

  
She began to walk again with her purse clutched to her hip. A couple of more blocks, and into an obscure ally. She carefully walked as she avoided puddles.

Sandwiched between two brick buildings, she spotted a door that could easily be missed if one didn’t pay enough attention. The small window in the door was covered by a thick cloth from the other side, and no light escaped into the ally. There was no sign, so it was a challenge to figure out if they were open. The only way to know was to push the door. Lana looked around, saw nobody was watching, and pushed. It opened.

  
Dusty air swallowed her in. Careful not to even graze the pyramids of things around her, she made her way to the counter. Behind it was a person of uncertain age, gender, or race. They could be a shapeshifter, and Lana wouldn’t find it surprising.

  
“I’m looking for Barron,” she said.

  
The person stayed motionless for some moments. “Barron who?”

  
Lana held in her sigh. “Barron Dietrich.”

  
It was their procedure, this speaking-in-code thing, in order to keep the undercover literary police away. But Lana had come here various times, and they should have remembered her face by now.

  
The person slowly raised their hand and unlocked the tiny gate next to the counter.  
Lana went through it and stopped before a door, which the strange person also unlocked with a key.

  
The other side of the door had no semblance to the messy antique shop. In fact, quite the opposite. Surrounded by naked walls, the space had nothing more than a desk and a chair, the only light coming from the computer. It illuminated the ghostly face of a woman in the chair.

  
“I have a story,” Lana said.

  
“Your real name, please?”

  
“Lana Winters.”

  
The woman typed in on the keyboard. She stood up, went to the safe in the corner of the room, and took a checkbook out. After scribbling on it, she gave the check to Lana.

  
“For last month’s sales,” the woman said. “I was going to send it out tomorrow, but since you’re here… Now, I know you know, but make sure to deposit it at the bank on Court Street, alright? Nowhere else.”

  
“Understood.”

  
The figure on the check was more than satisfactory thanks to the growing number of underground audience in recent years. Some genuinely believed that the underground artwork was better than the legal counterpart. Others preferred it, because they found joy in knowing that the artists here were always a few steps closer to soullessness than they were. They paid their money willingly to help whittle away at an artist's soul. When Lana found out about this, she thanked the cruelty of humanity.

  
The woman returned her attention to the computer. “So, another story.” She held her hand out.

  
Lana fished a floppy disk out of the purse and handed it over.

  
The woman inserted the disk, waiting some seconds for it to load, then scrolling to take a look at the document.

  
“The author's name would be Arthur Martin this time, yes? And what genre?”

  
“It's a romance/coming-of-age story, I suppose.”

  
“Quite a leap from your usual horrors, isn't it?” The woman showed a smile, though small, for the first time since Lana had walked in.

  
Lana returned the smile. “A little bit of challenge can never hurt.”

  
“I really liked your latest work, by the way. Timothy Walker. It was you, wasn't it?”

  
She shrugged. “Maybe. I don't keep track of my pseudonyms. Once used, it's useless. No point in keeping it.”

  
The woman have a pensive nod. “Like a condom.”

  
“I beg your pardon?”

  
“No-- Nothing. I apologize. I mean, I usually don't pay attention to authors’ names, either. Yours was simply easy to remember because I knew a Timothy and a Walker.”

  
“So do I. What a coincidence.”

  
The woman shook her head. “It's a shame that a talent like you has to hide from the world. They have no idea what they are missing out on.”

  
To Lana, it sounded more ironic than the woman possibly had intended. Being a lesbian, she would still have to hide a part of her even if there came a day when this literary ban was lifted.

  
“Anyway,” the woman said, “I will send this to the editor and get in touch with you. And we'll discuss your share later.”

  
Lana thanked her and left, walking through the disorienting antique shop again.

 

* * *

* * *

 

  
She turned the key in the front door of her house. It was unlocked already, though it didn’t alarm her.

  
Mary Eunice was in the living room, making herself comfortable with a cup of coffee and a book. Lana had changed the hiding place of the spare key the previous week. It was a waste of time, it seemed. She gave up her hope for a calm night in an instant.

  
Mary glanced at her over the shoulder. "Inside a pill bottle buried under a noticeable rock? Why, that was too easy."

  
"What do you want?"

  
"Where have you been?" Mary said without missing a beat.

  
"Out. I was out." Lava put her purse on the table.

  
Mary's gaze lingered on it. "You were at the publisher."

  
Lana didn't say anything. Instead, she moved to the kitchen and began washing and chopping vegetables.

  
Mary followed her and leaned against the fridge. “They're going to catch you one of these days, you know that, right? If you don't become a zombie before that, that is.”

  
“And what makes you think I'm afraid of either of them?”

  
“Fear is an important function for self-preservation.”

  
“Yes, but unnecessary fear only incapacitates you.”

  
“So, you'd rather be a soulless zombie eventually than feeling a little bit barred today. Talk about instant gratification.”

  
"Don't lecture me,” Lana said, pointing the knife at her, “I know the risk I'm taking."

  
She did, indeed. She had many friends who were now locked up in the prison hospital, all day looking at nothing but the wall. They recognized their loved ones and remembered their history, but it was as far as they could go. Their hearts were empty. No joy, no hope, no passion.

  
“The risk,” Mary said with a smile of mockery.

  
“You aren't an artist. You don't know what it's like-- Really, why are we still talking about this? Can you let it go? I'm trying to make dinner.”

  
Mary threw a glance at the chopped vegetables in a soup pan. “I hate onions.”

  
“Well, that's unfortunate.”

  
“It's one thing to write two or three books in a lifetime. It's another to write one every year.”

  
Lana didn't dare to meet her gaze. “All great artists were passion criminals. Dostoevsky, Dickens, Woolf... They couldn't have been a great artist with just one piece."

  
"You're right, and Woolf killed herself because of that."

  
"Why do you care?” Lana stopped her hands and looked at her.

  
“Am I not supposed to care?”

  
“Come on, it's not like this is the only way humans can harm themselves. I can smoke a carton of cigarettes tomorrow, and you won't give a shit. So, why is this one different?"

  
“The body and the soul aren’t the same thing.”

  
“And the body is less important because--?”

  
Without a verbal response, Mary only stared at her.

  
Lana grew uncomfortable under the intense gaze, so she looked away and resumed her cooking.

  
"Do you know what opposite attraction is?” Mary said. “People are attracted to what they don't have?"

  
“I’m a writer, not a phycologist.”

  
“It’s your soul. I find it incredibly attractive.”

  
Lana let out a dry laugh. "Are you flirting with me?"

  
"No, it's a warning.” Mary slowly walked closer to her. “When you become an empty vessel is when I leave you. Without your soul, you have no value to me. Remember that.”

  
Despite the flare in Mary’s eyes, however, Lana’s lip curled into a teasing smile. “Then, you should stop threatening people so they’d buy my books. If nobody buys my work, I might stop it.”

  
“No, you don’t. It’s not about the money.”

  
Lana shrugged. “Who knows? It might slow me down.”

  
“Someone needs to put food on the table.”

  
“You say that as if you’re part of this household.”

  
Lana had no desire to continue the fight any more. Her fire had died down. And Mary knew that once Lana started to tease her for something, whatever argument they had was over.

  
Mary watched her as she put the rest of the ingredients in the soup and turned the stove on. Slowly, she moved to stand behind Lana, wrapping her arms around her waist.

  
“You sound like you aren’t scared that I leave you one day,” Mary said in a quiet tone.

  
“Because I’m not.” Lana covered Mary’s hands with her own. “You will leave someday, one way or another. It’s only a question of before or after my death.”

  
“What if you knew you’d lose your soul tomorrow? Would you be afraid?”

  
With closed eyes, Lana rested her head back on Mary’s shoulder. “I know you have all of my books. Even after my body had no soul left in it, you will have all pieces of me in your bookshelf. Knowing that is more than enough for me. There’s no other place I’d rather be in the end.”

  
Lana couldn’t see her face. Instead, she felt a lingering kiss planted on her shoulder.

  
“You make me cry,” Mary said. “You should be a poet.”

  
Lana smiled. “You are incapable of crying. You have no soul.”

  
Mary Eunice kissed her again in the same place. “Birds of a feather, then.”

  
“Some day,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated :) also I sometimes accept prompts


End file.
